


Any Other Way

by evewithanapple



Category: L.A. Confidential (1997)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-09
Updated: 2014-12-09
Packaged: 2018-02-28 18:37:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2742866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evewithanapple/pseuds/evewithanapple
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ed and Bud are sent undercover to a gay bar and end up getting more than they bargained for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Any Other Way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [madame_le_maire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/madame_le_maire/gifts).



Ed knows that he has a reputation as being prudish, and it doesn't especially bother him. He did not join the LAPD in order to make friends or socialize, and if his colleagues don't ask him to join them when they go out and get drunk after hours, it is not something that overly concerns him. Truth be told, he doesn't go out to bars even on his own time; he may drink, but doing so in public is a loss of control that he would prefer to avoid whenever possible. Los Angeles' clubs and bars have gotten along fine without being patronized by Ed Exley for the past thirty years, and he doubts they'll begin to suffer for his absence now.

Between the two of them, Bud is- marginally- more open to celebrating, although not by much. He'll go out for beers with the guys, maybe even go to a party if he's asked nicely, but dancing is not his forte. (Ed knows; once, when they were visiting Lynn, she goaded him into doing the two-step with her and the result was something he dearly wishes he'd gotten on film.) Like Ed, Bud is not a clubgoer. So when they're not at work, they stay at their house with the blinds drawn and the radio on, lights placed strategically so that there will be no incriminating silhouettes cast on the curtains. It suits them both fine.

Neither of them counted on being sent undercover.

They especially did not count on getting sent undercover to the Maxwell Cafe, a place known to those who moved in the right circles- circles which now, by default, include Bud and Ed- as one of the city's more popular gay bars.

It's almost like the captain is fucking with them.

* * *

 

"I hate this fuckin' place," Bud announces grimly for what is probably the third time in the past half-hour. Ed taps his ankle sharply with his foot. "Be quiet. Someone will overhear."

Bud gives him a disbelieving look. "In this crowd? With this music?"

Ed has to agree, the music is somewhat . . . overwhelming. Even more so is the dress. Ed and Bud were told, when they were given the assignment- go in, scope out the place, collar anyone who looked like they were underage or doing dope- that they should consider dressing more "up" than they usually did. Ed took this to mean he should wear colours, and obliged by going out and buying a shiny green tie. Looking around, he thinks he may have underestimated his surroundings. Not only are the other men here wearing suits and shirts in a variety of flamboyant colours, some have eschewed suits entirely, opting for evening gowns instead. They pull them off surprisingly well, Ed thinks. He's encountered cross-dressers before, mostly when they've spent a night in the cells- though they don't tend to stand out, mostly because they tend towards the more polite end of "criminals he's locked up." But these fellows have really gone the lock stock and barrel with their getup- makeup, shoes, dresses, the whole hog. If Ed had passed one of them in the street and given them a casual once-over, he'd never have even guessed they were men. Once again, he finds himself baffled at the amount of effort people are willing to put into dressing up for these sorts of outings. Can't they just dance at home?

Bud is watching some of the cross-dressers as well, and there's a look in his eyes that Ed doesn't like. "You oughta try that sometime," he mutters in Ed's ear, beer-scented breath ghosting across his cheek. "Take some pictures to remember the occasion by. Maybe send some to Lynn- think she'd like it?" Ed wonders if Bud is remembering the dancing incident.

"Absolutely not," he hisses. "Sending a picture like that in the mail is an invitation for blackmailers. And besides-" as a diabolical thoughts enters his head- "I suspected you'd look better in a dress than I would."

Bud's face darkens. "That a fact?"

"Only one way to find out," Ed says smoothly. "Unless you'd rather not be proven wrong." This is the sort of pasttime he actually enjoys- riling Bud up, watching his face grow red and the veins in his neck bulge knowing- intimately- that if he pressed a hand to his trousers, he'd feel a hardness growing there, spurred on by the thrill of being challenged. They don't need to be at a bar for this, but Ed's finding- much to his surprise- that the public nature of it all adds a thrill all its own. To be sure, no one will raise an eyebrow if he _does_ reach out and cup Bud through his trousers, but the idea of doing it here, in the open, watching Bud squirm impotently- well it carries its own sort of charm.

"We're supposed to be watching for dope dealers," Bud mutters, and Ed smirks; he knows he's won. He also knows that Bud is right, and so he turns and scans the crowd. He doesn't see anything to be concerned about- just people dancing, people drinking, people dragging a very drunk-looking kid into one of the back hallways-

Wait.

"Over there," he mutters, nudging Bud. Bud follows his gaze, and his eyes narrow. He gropes at his waist for a gun, before apparently remembering that he didn't bring one- they decided it would be too obvious, and it's not like dope fiends are known for carrying anyway. At Bud's nod, Ed begins to slip through the crowd, his partner close on his heels. The band has switched to a slow number, and couples are waltzing across the floor; several times Ed's forced to mutter "excuse me," as he ducks by a swishing skirt. The man they're chasing went into the hall that leads to the washrooms, which has only a single, sputtering overhead light. Ed figures it's set up that way to give impatient couples some privacy, but right now he wishes this place, and its lighting, would go right to hell.

There's a scuffling noise down the hall, accompanied by the sound of a high-pitched slurred voice. The voice is interrupted by another, lower and rougher, and then it comes back in a panicked whine. Ed breaks into a run, Bud behind him, and he skids to the end of the hall just as he hears the sound of a fist hitting a face and someone shouting "Jesus _Christ_!"

He grabs the first body he can find, small and light under his fingers, and yanks it backwards. The light reveals the kid he saw getting pulled into the hallway, lipstick smeared and eyes wide and tear-blurred. The kid's jaw is hanging slack, a bruise beginning to bloom bright red next to his mouth. Ed pulls his stupid tie off and hands it to him. "Here. Clean yourself up."

The kid takes his tie with trembling fingers and does as Ed says. Ed glances over to Bud, who's got the guy who'd pulled the kid down here in a headlock and is shoving him facefirst into the drinking fountain. Ed watches dispassionately; he knows he should call Bud off, and he will before any permanent damage is done, but for now- well, the man can consider it a warning. He's pushed through enough of these cases to know that the kid- who can't be a day over sixteen- won't prosecute, or even accept a ride down to the station to file a statement. The guy Bud has in a headlock is gonna get off scot-free so far as his legal record is concerned, so a few good abrasions to the face shoud serve as a reminder not to try this shit again. Maybe if Bud leaves a good scar, he won't find the young and intoxicated such easy prey anymore.

"That's enough," he says finally, and Bud stops, the man's head still resting against the edge of the drinking fountain. Ed steps back, and lets Bud do the talking; he's better at this part.

Bud looks at the kid. "You got a ride home?"

The kid shakes his head, still pressing Ed's tie to his mouth. "No."

"No ride?"

"No home."

Ed and Bud exchange a look, and Bud sighs. "Here." He digs into his pocket, flips his wallet open, and hands the kid a few twenties. "Find a place to stay and someone who'll clean you up. The bartender can probably tell you where to go."

The kid nods, eyes still welling, and holds the tie out to Ed. Ed shakes his head. "Keep it." It's an ugly fucking tie anyway.

The kid slips away down the hall; Ed and Bud watch him until he's gone, before Bud sighs and slumps against the wall. "Shit," he says. "I'm too old for this."

"More like he's too young," Ed says. He suspects Bud's right; the bartender will be able to steer the kid in the right direction, and if he's lucky, he'll make some friends in higher places. Still, it all rankles. Ed nods at the bigger man, who's still face-down in the fountain. "What do you want to do with him?"

Bud lifts the man's head by his hair; he's out cold. "I'll toss him out back," he says with a dismissive shrug. "Trashman'll pick him up if he's not awake by tomorrow morning." And he does, kicking the back door open and tossing the man out by the scruff of his neck. Then he rolls his shoulders, and checks his watch. "Shit, it's almost three. You want to head out?"

Ed nods. "I'll write the report up tomorrow." The whole encounter's left him tired; he wants a shower and a warm bed, preferably with Bud in it. "We did good."

Bud grunts. "We could've done better."

Ed has nothing to say to that. It's the eternal struggle: for every step forward they take, with the department or by themselves, they still seem to be walking in place. Still a bunch of kids wandering around L.A. with no home to go to. Still creeps like the guy they just tossed out back. Still no way of setting things up so the kid can testify without fucking up his whole life, or so they're not wasting their time raiding bars whose worst crime is having patrons wearing ugly clothes.

"Let's go home," is what he says instead. In an effort to raise the mood, he adds "Don't think I've forgotten the dress idea. I'm holding you to that."

Bud's eyes glint, a welcome sign of distraction. "Hold me to it all you like," he says. "I'm still getting those pictures to Lynn, one way or another."

Ed laughs. They'll probably tell Lynn about the whole night the next time they visit Bisbee- or earlier, if she calls. She won't be able to do anything but commiserate and remind them, again, that her home is always open if they decide they're sick of the big city. But Ed doesn't think that'll happen any time soon. They might be up to their necks in shit, but the only way to shovel it out is to stay right where they are and keep digging. Neither of them would have it any other way.

**Author's Note:**

> The Maxwell Cafe is a real place, and really did serve as a gay bar in the 1950s. Unfortunately, there isn't a whole lot of information online about what the interior looked like or what kind of entertainment they had, so I'm operating mostly on imagination and guesswork. (They were, however, known for catering to a more "flamboyant" clientle- hence the dresses.)
> 
> The title is taken from a Jackie Shane song of the same name. Shane was a performer in the early 1960s- so a bit off-period, but unfortunately I couldn't find anything closer- who had a hit with a song that went "tell her that I'm happy/tell her that I'm gay/and I wouldn't have it/any other way."


End file.
